Four Seasons
by Hanna B. L'Ectre
Summary: As the seasons progressed, Holmes and Watson found themselves inorexably drawn together. Four quick fics, Holmes/Watson
1. Spring

I could have sworn that this thing was exactly 1000 words long...

Anyway, this is the first of four short Sherlock Holmes fics; a bit of a challenge for myself, as it were. All of them are at or dancing around 1000 words. Each is based upon one of the four seasons of the year. It should be noted that though they do connect to each other in a chronological manner, that you CAN read them separately. They are also slash, so expect Holmes/Watson innuendo. Enjoy.

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

Spring

Springtime in London: the only word that can successfully describe it is misery. The dreary rains day after day grated upon my nerves like nails upon a blackboard, and the odd climate change—hot to cold and back again—made my head ache with an unholy fury. While Holmes, the bloody devil, ventured into the city rain or shine, I was forced to remain at home, racked with debilitating migraines; a cold cloth upon my forehead and our well-worn chaise lounge were my only companions on these frequent occasions. Each time Holmes found me in such a state, he would shoot me a heated look as if greatly offended, and despite the fact that I was completely within my rights to abstain from his hare-brained adventures, a lump of guilt would invariably rise to my throat as I drifted into yet another pain-induced stupor.

"Justice and discovery wait for no man, Watson." He would spit this little quip at me every morning while I writhed in agony, just as he had done this particular morning, but the raging fire that smoldered in my skull had been so intense that I hadn't even the power to nod in agreement, let alone retort in my defense. With that said and a curt nod, I watched him leave and waited in agony for his return.

Hours passed. I felt the night approach without so much as opening my eyes; these days they were closed so often that one would think that I played at blindness. The house cooled suddenly, the light beyond my eyelids dimmed, and the busy street fell silent. Strangely though, when I rose blearily to check the time, the old grandfather clock's face read four-o-clock. Before I had time to question, an earsplitting crash of thunder broke the relative silence, sending a blinding shock of pain through my head. I fell back to the chaise and uttered a groan of contempt. Had God no mercy?

"Just another one of your bloody storms, I see." I grumbled blasphemously. "Is there never a time in this accursed season when a good man can get some peace?"

As if mocking me with some great cosmic joke, the front doors swung open with a bang and in barreled Holmes, hat and cloak sodden, face stony and unreadable as always. It seemed that even Sherlock Holmes could be foiled by the weather, I thought to myself spitefully. I was repaid with a spasm of pain in my neck. Without a word—at least, a word detectable by my muddled senses—he shed the outer layer of his clothing, leaving himself only in his chemise (I found my eyes shamefully drawn to the unbuttoned collar) and trousers. Stopping only to don his slippers, he headed for the staircase.

"Watson." Surprised to find him addressing me while in such a disagreeable state, I answered without a thought.

"Yes, Holmes?" I winced at another stab of pain.

"You are still feeling…er, "under the weather" as it were?" He was uncomfortable with his little witticism, I could tell.

"Y-yes, a bit." "A bit" hardly described the extent of my discomfort, but to appear weak before Holmes…I had found the prospect suddenly unthinkable, though I was sure that his sharp mind could see right through my façade. Motionless at the foot of the stairs, he continued to stare at me; his eyes, dark and rich as baker's chocolate, bored into mine: pale, watery and no doubt bloodshot and red as Hell. Then he was back on his way, as if nothing had happened between us at all.

What had I expected, really? Pity? A ludicrous thought; such a notion bordered upon the impossible. Rarely did Holmes engage in such a sycophantic emotion, particularly toward people. I slumped back against the velveteen spine of the chaise lounge once more, pressing my now flaming cheek to its soft skin. I felt another hard lump rise to my throat, this one derived from disappointment. What a fool I had been, to expect any form of affection from a man like Sherlock Holmes.

Perhaps my gloomy musings, combined with my pain, had overtaken my senses, but I never heard Holmes come into the silent sitting room; nor did I notice him light the fire in the hearth. To me, the sound of the violin seemingly came from nowhere, like an angel's song. I rose weakly to find my detective friend sitting at the foot of the chaise, eyes downcast and the tiniest smile upon his lips. I soon recognized the song as Vivaldi's "Spring"—the second movement, to be precise. The violin sang its sweet lullaby as the rain pelted Baker Street, a score set to the opera of nature.

Finally I could no longer restrain myself. "Holmes…"

"Hush, Watson." I obeyed and he continued to play, his long, ink-stained fingers caressing the strings of his beautiful instrument. I found myself envying it. As he played, his murky eyes moved from his violin to me, and the sensation that followed was akin to that of the lightning that flashed in the sky outside. Soon enough, however, the song ended and Holmes rose from his seat, my heartbeat following the same pattern as he approached me.

"My dear Watson," he chuckled, his deep voice hanging in the air. "You look positively pathetic." I frowned indignantly, which he found very funny. "Did you enjoy the song? Did it, perhaps, soothe you?"

"Yes. I thank you, Holmes." With a small smile, he reached down and, with the back of his blotchy hand, stroked my hot face. If my heart could burst from my chest, certainly it would have done so. Stranger things have happened. "No fever. Good." And as quickly as it had came his touch was gone, Holmes along with it. I was left alone with the flickering fire and the thundering night.

Upon the only star that was visible from my place upon the lounge, I wished that the misery of spring would never end.


	2. Summer

Here is Numer Two of Four in the "Four Seasons" Sherlock Holmes package. The warnings from the first apply to all of these, so homophobes be wary. Enjoy.

**Disclaimer: Again, I own nothing.**

Summer

The heat of the summer was absolutely unbearable even for me, a man accustomed to the year-round sweltering sun of Afghanistan. It melted the sweetshops' sugary wares, it sent children, big and small, into a frenzy over the smallest puddle, and had ruined many a shirt of mine with perspiration. What bewildered me most about the season, however, was Holmes; how he could trudge through the summer sun, cloak and all, and not break a single sweat was beyond me. I myself was reduced to shedding my hat and jacket, fanning myself with the former. Of course, one must take into account that the very presence of Holmes on any occasion was enough to make me hot under the collar.

That blistering day we were headed to the scene of a particularly nasty crime, the way Inspector Lestrade described it. A vagrant, desperate with thirst, bludgeoned a young lady fetching water from her well with a sharp rock, splitting her skull. The police were, yet again, stumped as to where the perpetrator had gone. The ground, dry and brittle as hardtack, had left no footprints—at least, none visible to their eyes. I was positive that Sherlock would find something of interest.

"Ah, Holmes!" Lestrade greeted him pleasantly. "Doctor." His lack of enthusiasm did not offend me; I was used to falling into the background while Holmes received all the approbation. Obviously they didn't know what went on behind the scenes.

"Gentlemen." Holmes sharply nodded, cutting off all chance of what he called "sniveling introductions." Immediately he sat down and went to work. The way he practically sniffed the ground, pawing and scratching away, I was reminded of a royal bloodhound, catching the scent of a wily rabbit on the run. I might've laughed, had I not been so miserably hot.

"Anything?" I knew that such an interruption would peeve him. I could be positively spiteful when uncomfortable.

"Shh! I must concentrate." Continuing his examination without a hitch, I leaned against the well in question, smiling blissfully as I let the cool air that emanated from it wash over my hot and severely bothered body.

I hadn't even had time to scream before a stone slipped out from beneath me, sending me plummeting into darkness.

That certainly got Holmes' attention. He rushed with the others to the edge of the well. I could make out his distinctive silhouette above me. "Watson? Come now, Watson! Answer me!" I shivered uncontrollably, part from fear and part from the numbing cold of the water that enveloped me. I rubbed my chest and arms, trying to keep calm and hoping to God that they had a plan up there.

"I-I'm alr-right!" I pushed the words from my quivering lungs.

Lestrade's weasely voice echoed down to me. "Hang on, Doctor!" As if I had anything better to do. "A rope, lads, quickly!" I watched as the men scurried about, casting shadows on the pinpoint of light that was the opening of the well.

"Watson!" Holmes again shouted to me from above. "A rope is being lowered now." Despite the volume of his voice, he sounded absolutely composed, as if this was simply some sort of test, and his partner had not nearly fallen to his death. Then again, it was what I had come to expect from him: complete control, frigidity as perfect as that of the water that surrounded me.

I took the rope as it was lowered to me, clinging like a drowning rat to a piece of driftwood. As I slowly rose, I spotted Holmes standing in the back of the crowd, a bead of sweat miraculously rolling down his cheek. He held his trademark hat in his hands, exposing his russet locks that so rarely saw daylight; his eyes were glued to my ascent. Carefully Lestrade and his men lifted me over the threshold of the well, and I shakily stood upon my own two feet. Well, I certainly wasn't hot anymore. Holmes made his way toward me, removing his cloak and wrapping it around my sodden body.

"My dear Watson," he chided me in a clipped voice. "You certainly have a tendency for accidents." I smiled and thanked him for this unexpected bout of concern, watching as Lestrade and his men took down Holmes' observations. He returned shortly after saying his farewells, patting my shoulder stiffly. "Well, shall we head home?"

"C-certainly." Despite the warmth of the sun and his cloak, my teeth still chattered with the chill of the well. We made for the walk, silently hiking back to Baker Street. A young street performer played his violin, a terrible rendition of what sounded like Vivaldi's "Summer Concerto". Holmes' eyebrow twitched upward; I could tell that the "music" was grating upon his temper. I couldn't help but chuckle at his expense.

"Is near-death so amusing, Dr. Watson? I had been under the impression that such a condition was undesirable." His barbed tone made me wince.

"Well…it is, Holmes. I just…" I gave up trying to defend myself. I had learned that such a stubborn man could never be swayed by my feeble arguments.

Finally we reached our flat, and I made a break for the stairs, eager to get out of my soaked clothes and into my welcoming bed. However, I barely had time to set my foot into my room when I was attacked from behind by a pair of arms.

"You damned fool!" Holmes pulled me into his chest tightly, burying his face in the crook of my damp neck, his face hot against it. His voice shuddered with emotion as he held me. "What the _devil_ were you trying to do? Kill yourself?!" I said nothing as usual; letting him touch me, ease my clothes from my body, sighing as he warmed me from the inside out.

Later I sat in bed, his dark head resting comfortably in my lap, and mused happily upon how quickly the summer air could thaw even the most frigid countenance.


	3. Autumn

This is Number Three of Four in the "Four Seasons" Holmes package: "Autumn". As per usual there is slash, so be warned.

**Disclaimer: ...Seriously?**

Autumn

London drifted into autumn like a leaf floating down a stream: peacefully and deliberately. With its arrival came festivals and parties of all kinds; the streets were lined with dubious individuals all trying to spread the good cheer of the harvest season—for the right price, of course. The temperature was perfect: not too cold and not too hot, and the humor of the townsfolk seemed to follow a similar pattern, save for Holmes'. He despised it all, his reasoning being that the merrymaking was simply exploiting the natural beauty of autumn. Iknew him better than that, though; while the city was busy with their celebrations, they neglected their illicit activities. In short, my dear Sherlock was bored out of his skull, and it was my mission to entertain him as best as I could. However, our domestic activities were growing tiresome, even to me, so on a chilly day in October, I told him of a party being held by our mutual confidante, Inspector Lestrade.

"Are you quite mad, Watson?" Holmes was not enthused, as I had expected. I assured him that he would enjoy himself, but he was clearly unconvinced. "What could be possibly "enjoyable" about gallivanting about with Lestrade and his fool friends?"

"Well," I smiled slyly, shrugging my shoulders indifferently. "I should think that it would be more enjoyable than stewing here all alone, knowing that I am gallivanting about with Lestrade's fool friends…by myself." Jealousy, I had learned, was a useful tool. Sherlock agreed to attend posthaste.

"I really know nothing of this nonsense, Watson." He grumbled as he dressed. His spotty fingers, enclosed in a pair of white gloves, fumbled with his cravat: never worn, by the looks of it. I stepped in front of him and took it, knotting it neatly beneath his chin.

"Really, Holmes—socializing is not hard." I advised him as he brushed his glossy hair away from his face. "Just stroll around, respond when you are spoken to—politely, of course—and…" Touching the corners of his scowl, I whispered playfully. "…try to smile."

"In other words, lie." Good Lord, he had the worst way of dampening good spirits. I wasn't about to fall for it.

"Exactly." I said, grinning ridiculously. Knowing that he had lost this round, he quickly changed the subject.

"Do I look…suitable for such an occasion?" I stood back, taking in Holmes' full, lean frame. For a man who rarely socialized, he certainly dressed the part. His suit, a striking cobalt blue, made his stark features even sharper. "I chose the blue to complement the rotting brown of autumn." Rolling my eyes at his forced bitterness, I handed him his coat.

"Dismal as your reasons may be," I glanced briefly at him again, preserving the image in my mind. "You look positively marvelous." A gratifying blush rising to his face, he nodded curtly and we headed out to the hansom that I had called. He opened the door for me, allowing me access first before settling inside, waving the driver on. Unbelievably, we were on our way.

"So." Holmes spoke suddenly, eyes on the street. "What in God's name does Lestrade have to celebrate? His incompetence?"

"Must you be so bitter, Holmes?" He did not answer, but I took his stubborn silence as "yes". "Today is his anniversary. Ten years, if I'm not mistaken." I shot him a pointed look. "Something worth celebrating, I should think." He seemed to take the hint.

"Of course. Such a long relationship is…commendable." He looked to me, dark eyes warm and a small smile on his lips. I snaked my hand into his, returning the smile.

"That it is." I whispered, hoping our driver did not catch the loving tone of my voice.

We arrived at Lestrade's home shortly and stepped out of the hansom and onto the leaf-littered street. Thanking the driver, Holmes and I approached the door, he as stiff as a corpse.

"Oh, come now, Holmes. No need for anxiety." He stopped abruptly and took me by the shoulders.

"Something about this "party"—it does not seem right." I scoffed and brushed his hands away.

"Be reasonable, Holmes!"

"Do not chide me like a child!" He jabbed me in the chest with his gloved finger. "I am not a fool, John! When I sense that something is amiss, am I not typically correct?"

"Well, yes." His boredom was becoming a menace; he had begun speculating about everything. I tried to stop him, but he would not give in.

"And is it not normal for a man throwing a party in honor of such an auspicious occasion to send out invitations?" I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at his senseless paranoia.

"_Yes._" I replied acerbically.

"Can't you see, Watson?" He was almost frenzied; the whole neighborhood would hear the bloody fool at this rate.

"_HOLMES!!"_ I could stand it no longer. "For God's sake, it's a bloody _party! _A party for—"At that moment, Lestrade's door swung open and a nameless partygoer shouted:

"Holmes? He's here, mates!" He called back into the house, and a good score of guests came onto the walk, drunken grins on their faces

"_Happy Birthday!!"_ They shouted out into the street, combined with all sorts of good tidings. I dared to look up at Holmes. Pressing the back of my hand to my mouth, I repressed the laughter that threatened to escape my lips. He stood perfectly still, his finger frozen to my chest, mouth agape.

"Happy birthday, Holmes."

Not a word in response.

"Many happy…returns?" I ventured, and as the drunken well-wishers returned inside for their cake and sherry, Holmes snapped out of his reverie and leered down at me, grinning predatorily.

"Yes…I'm sure that I will be receiving _many_ happy returns tonight, my dear Watson." As we made our way into the house, I gulped, fearing Holmes for the first time.

I figured that it was not the best time to tell him that Lestrade was single.


	4. Winter

Finally, last but not least, I present to you the fourth of my "Four Seasons" Holmes fics. As per usual, there is slash, so be warned...blah, blah, blah. Enjoy.

**Disclaimer: I own nothing...again.**

Winter

With the year coming to a close, winter finally wrapped its icy fingers around us, freezing London solid. The Christmas season approaching, brave souls forced themselves out into the blistering cold to find the perfect gift for their dearly beloved, scarves and wraps concealing their frost-nipped faces. In fact, I quickly found myself among their ranks, trudging out into the frozen streets, snow and ice crunching beneath my feet. I had been racking my brain for weeks, thinking of the perfect gift for my dear Holmes—really, what does one buy for a man like Sherlock Holmes? A greater conundrum had never been posed to humankind, I should think. But, finally, I knew exactly what I would do for him, and it had all began six days prior to my current expedition into the cold.

At this time I had been practically beating my head into the wall with frustration, Sherlock's gift still eluding me, when that evening I wandered into the downstairs and saw him. He sat upon the sofa, eyes glazed and transfixed on the sputtering fire in the hearth. His face was drawn and pale, and he had wrapped himself in a tartan wool coverlet; only his dark head was visible. I had seen Holmes mope about now and again—he was known for his devilish mood swings, even outside of Baker Street—but this was altogether different. He looked absolutely despondent. In the kitchen I brewed him a cup of chamomile tea, then slipped into the drawing room and gingerly seating myself beside him.

"Holmes?" He gave no answer; my only responses were the crackling of the fire and the beating of my own heart. "Sherlock. Answer me."

"Mm?" The sound almost escaped my hearing. His eyes, bleak with whatever dispirited him that night, swiveled to meet mine.

"Tea? It's chamomile. It will help you sleep." I endeavored to get some kind of intelligent response.

"Watson, you know I despise chamomile." He mumbled against the armrest of the sofa and flinched stubbornly away from my touch.

"Will you at least sit up, so that I can talk to you like a civilized gentleman?" After a small hesitation he did as I asked, rising slowly to a sitting position and even taking a few sips of his hated tea. His sadness was a parasite, sucking all of the life out of him. "Holmes…what on earth is the matter?"

"Nothing in particular, Watson," His cracked voice was barely audible, hardly a whisper. "I have simply realized that my life is completely meaningless."

"What?!" I was greatly taken aback. "What sort of nonsense is this, Holmes? Your life is hardly meaningless." He averted his gaze to the fire once more, the light dancing off of his beautiful, cheerless eyes.

"All of these…"great things" that I have accomplished …they will be lost. In another forty years or so, nobody will remember Sherlock Holmes—or John Watson, for that matter. Everything that we have done together, lost to time." The whole thing _did _sound terribly melodramatic, and I tried to get him to cheer up by undermining his fears.

"Oh, come now, Holmes. How could anyone forget you? Besides, my journals—"

"Your journals will be lost!" His sudden outburst startled me. "Lost when you die! I am _nothing_, John, nothing but another great mind being used by inferior men, and I am sore for it." I shook my head, pulling his onto my chest, letting my heartbeat calm him.

"Must you always be so dismal?" I whispered.

"In the face of death? Yes." Stroking his hair, my heart eventually lulled him to sleep, and his Christmas gift struck me like a bolt of lightning: immortality.

In the present, I was almost to my destination: The Strand, a very popular publication that I hoped would solve Holmes' dilemma. Beneath my arm I carried my journal. Previously, I had made an appointment with an aspiring young man who, fresh out of college, was struggling for regard. His name was Mr. Doyle, and though his writing had gone primarily unnoticed, I had found it quite impressive. When I arrived, I found the young chap to be quite no-nonsense: exactly what I had hoped for.

I told him of my wishes to publish my journals into The Strand as some sort of serial, assuring him that the stories contained within them were certain to attract readers from all walks of life. He took them and, with a charming smile that I likened to Holmes', guaranteed me that he would do his best to make my goal a reality.

As Christmas approached, Holmes thankfully emerged from his depression, commenting upon the happy day that was soon to arrive. In time, my reserved copy of The Strand arrived, and on Christmas morning, I awoke early and slunk into his bedroom, gently shaking him awake.

"Good morrow, Sherlock Holmes." His eyes cracked open and he smiled blearily at me. "Happy Christmas."

"The same to you, my dear Watson." He stretched yawning widely. "I'll retrieve your gift once I gather myself…" I cut him off with a finger to his lips.

"Just stay in bed. I have your gift here." From my robe I pulled the magazine ( a quick peruse found it more than satisfactory). He gave me a quizzical look. "Find page seven." He obeyed, and as his eyes scanned over the title, I saw them fill with tears.

The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes:

A Study in Scarlet

"What…what is _this?_" His face trembled with emotion.

"The young man who wrote this assured me that a simple publication would not assure its permanence. He converted my journal into a weekly serial. Now…" I touched his cheek, wet with tears. "…there won't be a man in England who does not know your name—and you will never be forgotten." Throwing the magazine aside, he took me by the waist and pulled me into his arms, crushing his lips into mine.

It proved to be a glorious Christmas.


End file.
